


Cyrano

by godbewithyouihavedone



Category: Cyrano de Bergerac - Edmond Rostand, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5846008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godbewithyouihavedone/pseuds/godbewithyouihavedone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her sister offers to write Alexander pretending to be her, to use her talents and explain Eliza's devotion.  But it sounds like she's truly in love.</p><p>(Knowledge of Cyrano de Bergerac isn't necessary to enjoy but there are references)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cyrano

“I long for your words,” he tells her, clasping her hand between his. “I write you often, when I am not otherwise engaged, and hear nothing back.”

“I was not raised for poetry, to spell correctly as you do,” she says. She looks to the ground.

“Love makes the poet, even if there were no words there before the heart's capture,” he says. He laughs. He presses his lips to her knuckles. “You must write often. I want to press your letters to my breast when I go to battle.”

“I will,” she says. She does not promise it will be eloquent. He deserves more, but he seems to desire her.

Two weeks later, when she has thrown away her third draft of the night, her sister wanders into her room. “You never stay up so,” she says.

“I cannot send this to him,” she says. She pitches the letter she has started into the fire, and her sister frowns at her. “He will think I do not care. It is halting and ill-formed. If he sent it, I would not want Papa to let him court me.”

“I am sure he does not concern himself with that,” her sister says. “You are beautiful and kind.”

And foolish, and shy. “You are never at a loss of words,” she says. “If only I had your mind.”

“You have his love.” Her sister swallows. “If it bothers you so, I can assist.”

Her sister reads his letter and writes him back, builds each sentence as a master. She reads it, and tears prick in her eyes. All the secret affections she has admitted, her sister has found a way to make them lovely.

She sends the letter. Her love writes back. He is fevered and yearning, and he congratulates her on the clarity of her words. She brings it to her sister. Soon this becomes ritual.

She rarely sees the letters, for her sister posts them often. She knows that her sister draws from their discussions. He will quote them in his replies, and it almost sounds like her. He is not likely to find out. She feels she has known him a lifetime. But their connection is brief and she is better at voicing thoughts than penning them.

His words set her afire.

“You aren’t scandalized to read the passionate parts?” she asks, as she hands off a letter to her sister that contains a reference to the possibility of a wedding night.

Her sister laughs. “Oh, my dear, your confidences help me achieve worldliness.” She is far more experienced, far more comfortable.

Her sister is slipping on her dressing-gown, letters in hand to send away with a friend, when Papa calls her. Since she intended to go with her to visit she waits, holding the letters. She opens the one to her love; it is not yet sealed.

She does not mean to dissect, but she cannot help noticing the words are not all hers anymore. In the middle, parts blur slightly, but it is not spilled ink. She did not notice when she signed it.

It cannot be as it looks. The two flirt, but all think it is amusing. He has courted her only since the day they all met. There is no reason her sister should cry over him.

“I apologize for the length of my diversion,” her sister calls from the parlor.

She stuffs the letter back in its envelope. If she asks, her sister will claim she was overcome with emotion, her passion for writing driving her to tears. Then she will look at her with guilt. Her sister told her, growing up, that she was lucky not to be the oldest daughter. She did not quite understand.

The two are both great minds. Her sister is beautiful as her love is handsome, and they talk politics together. But he has no money or status beyond the war, and in that they are a bad match. Additionally, if she told, he would be furious. They have deceived his honor. She showed her sister sentiments meant only for her eyes. Every signature was a lie. He is poor but prideful, careful of being hurt. So no good could come of admitting her betrayal.

When he sees her in person, he seems enchanted by their conversation. But it must not be as sparkling as how she writes.

“Would you still love me even if I could not express my devotion?” she asks. “If I did not write?”

“Never question my ardor,” he tells her. “I loved from the first moment, my darling girl. I plead for your thoughts out of loneliness, not as a test.”

She marries him.

Her sister toasts the wedding, eyes shining. Whether it is from happiness or helplessness she may never know. He is worth so much love. All her life she has been told to be quiet and pious and sacrificing. It fit her better than her sister.

Still, in this, she cannot say she thought of his station before her heart. She has known for months now that her sister loves him. Still she lets him make the vows, because she loves him too. More than she can understand or express.

Their wedding night he holds her, hands at the side of her face, breathing her air. He smiles and smiles. Her sister’s tears may stain the letters, but her blood is on the marriage bed. In the morning, she looks through his luggage and finds her letters. They are folded with his jackets, to wear to war. She is embarrassed how little she has read.

 _Your eyes, your eyes,_ her letters say. _The warmth of your hand in mine. The kisses you could press to my cheeks, were you beside me. It takes my breath away, to think of alternatives. The way I would have suffered had you not courted me. If I had never known your love, my friend. If I had not allowed it. If you had not loved me._

She gathers the letters to her chest and cries. She never meant for anyone to suffer so, for her sake.

Now she writes to him, finding confidence in their bond. Her sister has a wealthy suitor, and she did not offer to continue the ruse. She still finds the words difficult, but she writes for his sake. Yours, she signs. Yours, she thinks, while she writes it. And not the only one.


End file.
